Sour candy

There’s always a sweet aftertaste in sour candies.
 I don’t know why and have no curiosity for that.

Every Friday afternoon, he comes home with a small bag of sour candies that sometimes have only one flavor, sometimes a variety of them. It doesn’t seem that it takes him much time to decide, he may just pick them up on his way home.

Today, he passed the doorstep with lemon ones in his hands.

I lit up a cigarette while watching him tearing off the paper bag and pouring all the bright yellow candies into two porcelaneous jars, one for the living room and another for the bedroom.

The dying out sunlight was sliding through the stained glass wall, carving on the floor some subdued rainbow-colored straits. I held the cigarette above those rays, a petty column of white smoke danced quietly in late-day light which soon be chased away by the artificial one.

Soundlessly, he put the candy jar on the tea table whose surface was covered with books and magazines. He leaned back on the sofa, half of his face was in the shadow. When I rested my head on his lap, he took the cigarette off my hand, took a drag, and then rushed it on the already full whale-shaped ashtray. For years, the burning nicotine and tar had been leaving behind countless circling marks. The yellowish-brown color has already stained the whale’s originally deep blue shade.

The cigarette remaining let out a dying ray of smoke which looked as if the old whale was breathing. Without saying a word to each other, both of us just sitting there watching the pottery fish fading into dimness. The heater humming was echoing throughout the rooms.

He unwrapped a crystal-liked candy for me. Its unique taste made my face scrunch up like a newborn.

He smiled leisurely and took away the candy with a kiss.

“What did you do today?” He asked when we parted away.

“Nothing much.”

It was raining all day. The weather like this always makes me feel out of sorts. When I don’t have work occupying my mind, the moody feelings can easily slip into my head.

The day is long and the house feels empty without him.

“I want to see the fireworks.” I suddenly told him.

“It’s in June, right?”

I nodded while clinging tightly into his arms, greedily absorbing his warmth.

“It will be the most crowded time of the year. Will you be fine with that?”

“There’s an inn on the mountain nearby there. We can see the fireworks easily from that place. Besides, the inn is pretty old, it doesn’t attract many visitors. It’s very quiet there.”

“You’ve been there, haven’t you?”

“I went to that place shortly after my twenty-fourth birthday.”

There is a term in life that you suddenly begin doubting everything that pops up from your mind. Out of the blue, everything becomes so unsure. It varies for everyone. To many people, it happens in their teenage days, to some, it occurs in their twenties while others meet it in their midlife.

To me, it was the year that I reached the age of twenty-four.

At that point, I had been graduated for a few months and happened to publish my first two collections of short stories. Not they were that popular, yet it was enough for me to believe that I could make a living from writing. So, I abandoned the path I had spent about a quarter of my life studying hard on.

“One night, I woke up from a dream that I barely remembered. It just felt empty as if some parts of me just had disappeared. That uneasy feeling lasted for weeks and then one day, it struck me with the impulsive thought of running away. So, I ran. I just took the bus to the airport and bought the ticket for the earliest flight. When I got there, I saw an old pamphlet about an inn which got dusted all over it.”

Again, we both fell back into silence, waiting for the very last fragment of daylight to vanish.

“How long did you stay there?”

“Three weeks. The time I spent there… it was quiet and calm.”

He caressed my messy hair and tucked it behind my ear. The heat from his hands lingering gently.

“We can come back there whenever you like.” 

“Many years from now, when time may take all the early feelings away, you may be stuck here with me for good.” I smiled and buried my face on his neck.  

“Don’t you remember? I promised you that I’m here with you to the end of the time.”

Couples of months after we first met, I had a dream in which I saw myself with a horrible burn on the side of my right foot and then I started crying out for him. At that moment, I knew that unconsciously he had become a part of my attachment self.

I never tell him that.

When I was younger, once, I was asked to describe my future self. Instinctively, I see myself sitting alone in a quiet and windowless room, surrounding myself with every kind of book. Even when I get bored, I just wander around aimlessly, distant myself from the sea of people. 

I was meant to lead a solitary life. 

Fortunately, he found me.

Now we’re sharing this kind of “boring” life.

Days after days, I wait for him to come home and he let his outside world go when he passes by our doorstep. We make dinner, watch the news, read and build the whole library. If the sky is clear, we will sit by the balcony gazing at the stars. If it’s cold, we turn on the heater, make warm coffee and see some movies.

Once in a while, I tell him about my past self and he listens tenderly. The time is just mindlessly passing by.

That’s a day in our life.

9:30 am, 02/6/21.
Life is hard and full of suffering, but it becomes bearable when I have you here with me.